TimWoolery.net Documenting the Journey and the Learning Curve

#41 – Hospitals and Other Scary Places

Out of all three kids in the family, I was the one most likely to get hurt. Don't ask me why, metaphysical byproduct of being the middle child or something. Either way, I was the one who got stitches more often, visited the doctor more often and as of this writing-have been under the gas three times to my sister and brother's one each.

Some of it had to do with my own ability to get myself in trouble-some of it had to do with my brother. When I was a month old, he wanted to play with me and in so doing, upset the basinette I was laying in. I rolled off of the kitchen table to land head-first on the tile kitchen floor. Fortunately, dad was there to catch me on the first bounce and held onto me as they raced to the hospital. I had a spider-web fracture in my skull and, other than some overnight observation, I was just fine, went home the next day. Growing up I had doctor visits because I slammed a toilet seat on my manhood, doctor visits for two cases of Scarlet Fever, doctor visits to UCSF because mom and dad were worried that I was too small for my age. A couple of months after my eight birthday, my brother talked me into climbing a two-by-four stud ladder to our attic hideout while carrying an extension cord in one hand. I missed a rung and fell flat onto the concrete floor. The fall broke my nose, knocked a tooth out, split my lip all the way to my palate and dislocated my wrist. That was my first ride in an ambulance and fortunately, I don't remember anything of that night (setting my wrist, reattaching my tooth or stitching my lip). That led to my first operation where a plastic surgeon repositioned the cartilige in my nose so I wouldn't have the wicked ski-jump I had given myself. Two years later, my brother put a garden ho through my cheek while mistakenly aiming at a two-foot high weed (he hit me instead). Later, when I was mostly grown up, I went to the doctor because I had a lump in my midsection where I knew none should exist. He diagnosed a hernia and a couple months after that I was back in the hospital again.

The process of being operated on is something that was never calculated to lessen the anxiety of the patient. You begin by being ordered not to eat the night before ("Nothing after midnight, not even water!") so you're gorging yourself and it makes you wonder whether or not it might be your last meal. They always schedule you to come in early for check in so you show up at 7 in the morning and fill out more paperwork. After that-you're taken in and you get to strip off everything you own and put on a hospital gown that is every bit as uncomfortable and embarrassing as you've ever heard. Plus a showercap, don't ask me why. Indignaties are thrust upon you - did you know that if you get your hernia worked on they shave every bit of hair off you that's nearby? That was something I got to find out the hard way. I also got to find out the hard way that my family thought that detail was endlessly hilarious and told everyone about it. The nurses are the real angels of the process-they keep you from being too frightened and believe me you can be scared even if you are 19 years old and cracking jokes at everyone in sight. After an eternity, a surgical nurse wheels you into the operating room which is kept around 60 degrees (and you in nothing more than a hospital johnny) and you get to shift yourself onto a Real Operating Bed. It's even got a padded arm that you place your own onto-which reminds you of the execution scene from "Dead Man Walking". They insert a heavy gauge needle into your arm and you're out even before the surgeon comes into the room. The last thing I remember is not being able to move my arms. Then, all of a sudden, you're back again. No time lapse, no dreams, just off, then on again. Weird. I move around a little and the nurse shouts at me "We're givin' ya morphine!" and boom, I feel no pain for the rest of the day. The guerney ride from recovery up the stairs to a hospital room makes you feel really seasick but I handle it okay. After all of that, what do you need most of all? People. Just people. I had friends come to see me who had obviously been waiting because they were in the room just as I got there. The little oxygen feed blows cold dry air into your sinus cavities and is more annoying than you thought was possible. Ever think you'd be too weak to raise your head for a glass of OJ? That's something else that surgery teaches you; also to be grateful for the kindnesses of others who grab you by the back of the head and hold you up so you can get a drink. As soon as you can sit up again, you're sick into a kidney pan that a nurse holds for you. Got to appreciate her, she gave you the OJ even though she probably knew what was coming and held a pan for you to throw up in. I don't know anyone else who's done that for me. Then you're back in bed drifting in and out of sleep because the anaesthesia makes you so groggy.

They wheel you out of the hospital in a wheelchair-something that I remember from getting my nose worked on. I couldn't keep anything down that day and spent the night in bed taking two Demerols every two hours and not having it put a dent in the pain. Finally, I stumbled out to the couch and feel asleep in the recliner which was actually more comfortable than lying down because it didn't stretch the muscles that'd been recently cut open. After a few days I was back to normal and other than the scar-you wouldn't even know it happened to me.

I told you all of this for a reason. Yesterday one of the guys I worked with went into the hospital for emergency surgery and I thought it'd be nice to go see him. A few others thought the same and all together we made a nice little group to crowd the room and let his parents meet the people he worked with. There were some who declined to visit, each of them more or less giving the same reason: "I hate hospitals." That's pretty much what prompted me to write all of the above down and to talk about one of the simple truths of life:

Everybody hates hospitals

From the people who work there to the visitors to the people being worked on, you won't find anyone who wouldn't be happier if we lived in a world where hospitals were not necessary. Clear enough? Now that we've gotten that agreed on, let's agree on something else.

Visiting someone in the hospital is not about you.

Another beautiful truth. When you visit someone in there and you're hating every minute, be grateful that you've got two good legs under you that can take you home whenever you want. Most of the folks in here aren't that lucky. The person you happen to know has probably no less than 150 other places he'd rather be than stuck in that bed wearing that ridiculous johnny and watching some crap 13-inch television because God knows they don't provide books, newspaper or internet connections in that place. You're choices of entertainment are TV, TV and listening to all the noises sick people make around you. Visits help, trust me.

Sooner or later-everyone visits the hospital as a patient. When your turn comes, you'll appreciate the visits and kindnesses of others. So, go out of your way to build up some brownie points and stop in for a few minutes. Don't feel like you're obliged to listen to the complete medical history of the person who's checked in. More than likely, they've already tired of telling that story and would love to talk about anything besides the situation they're in. So, bring in the paper and let 'em read the comics. Or tell them about that funny story you heard that had everyone cracking up. Make a joke about the hospital food-that's always good for a laugh. Or just listen and let them choose the topic. Just be there and remind them that there's something beyond the wallpaper and the bed they're sleeping in.

A little selflessness is good for the soul. Forget that 'Chicken Soup' crap and go do something nice for someone.

Just a thought.

-Tim Woolery, 2/27/03